


M is for Memory

by Janieshi



Series: Alphabet [13]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Drunken Kissing, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-09 18:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: In which Hawkeye knows she's about to make a really bad decision, and she doesn't care.





	M is for Memory

_Memory /mem(ə)rē / noun - the mental capacity or faculty of retaining and reviving facts, events, impressions, etc., or of recalling or recognizing previous experiences._

* * *

 

**circa 1909, approximately 35 miles northwest of East City. 17 hours prior to the events ‘H is for Hangover.’**

 

“GO. AWAY!”

The man’s eyes were wild with fear. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hands trembled, but he kept the ancient shotgun trained on the two soldiers standing before him. His daughter, whose Ishvalan heritage was glaringly obvious in her blood-red eyes and white-blonde hair, clung to his legs, weeping. She couldn’t have been a day over five.

“Please,” she lisped. “Please don’t take Daddy! Please!”

“You get off my property! Stay away from us!” the man shouted.

“Sir, please calm down,” Lieutenant Colonel Mustang said, spreading his hands in a show of supplication. He struggled to keep his voice smooth and calm, and forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes as he spoke. “We’re not here to conscript you. It’s merely an _offer_.”

“No!” the man cried. “They’ll take her from me! I won’t let them take my daughter!”

“No one’s going to force you,” Mustang said. “No one’s taking anyone against their will. We’re just talking here, that’s all.”

Behind him, his Second Lieutenant breathed in sharp, shallow little pants. If she wasn’t already having an episode, then she was about to. He shifted his weight, slightly, hoping to angle himself between her and their target’s weapon. _Maybe if it wasn’t pointed at her_ , he thought. But even as he took a cautious step, the barrel of the shot gun swung back to him.

“You keep back!” the man shouted. “Or I’ll shoot!”

Mustang froze obediently. Frankly, they were in more danger of being shot _accidentally_ , the way this guy was waving his damn gun around.

The child’s sobbing only increased in volume, and Mustang could practically taste the waves of tension pouring off of Hawkeye. Dammit, he couldn’t afford to be worried about her right now!

“Look, just –just put your weapon down,” Mustang cajoled. “And once you do, my Second Lieutenant here will lower hers.” _He hoped._ “No one has to get hurt,” he went on, almost pleading now. “You don’t want anybody to get hurt, do you? Just put the gun _down_.”

“No-no trick?” the man asked, sweating and trembling. “I drop my gun, you leave?”

“Just like that. You have my word,” Mustang promised. “There, that’s it,” he added encouragingly, as the barrel of the shot gun wavered drunkenly. “Nice and easy, now.”

After what felt like an eternity, the man slowly lowered the barrel of his shotgun until the weapon hung loosely at his side. Hawkeye, however, kept her firearm trained resolutely on the man’s head. Mustang swore inwardly.

“Hawkeye, come on,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving the man’s white face. “Let’s get out of here.”

But the woman behind him was immobile, still locked on to her target.

“Hawkeye? You hear me? Stand _down_ , solider!” Mustang snapped.

Hawkeye flinched as though she’d been struck.

“Y-yes,” she said shakily as she lowered the gun. Mustang was willing to bet that she didn’t even remember drawing it. “Yes, sir.”

“We’ll just leave this informational pamphlet here, then, and we’ll be on our way,” Mustang said, louder. He moved very slowly, crouching to place the packet of papers on the ground at his feet. “Okay?” he asked as he straightened up again.

“Just GO!” the man screamed.

They went.

Mustang and Hawkeye backed up carefully until they’d reached their borrowed vehicle, climbing in quickly without taking their eyes off the man or the gun in his slack hands. Mustang hardly dared breathe until they’d turned back onto the road. They drove in total silence for several miles, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

“What about the child, sir?” Hawkeye finally asked. Mustang glanced over at her, noting the whiteness of her knuckles on the steering wheel.

“What about her?” he replied, flippantly. “We’ll mention it in the report, of course. Offer refused: widower with young child unable to accept the offered terms, as required duties and investment of time currently incompatible with subject’s responsibilities as sole caregiver for his minor daughter.”

Beside him, Hawkeye relaxed slightly.

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly. But the haunted look never left her eyes.

It was dark by the time they reached the motel.  Lieutenant Colonel Mustang dismissed his adjutant with a curt nod, and she fairly fled to the relative privacy of her room.

Mustang was unwilling even to attempt sleep. If his waking mind was already plagued by visions of red-eyed men, women, and children, of charred flesh and thick pools of blood, of defiant battle cries and terrified screams and desperate pleas…no. He wouldn’t willingly submit himself to the tortures his dreaming mind had in store for him.

Fortunately, there was a liquor store just across the street from their motel.

He was only on his second drink when he heard Hawkeye cry out. If he’d been a different man, one who’d never seen a battlefield, he might have run to her – kicked down her door, rushed in to save her from whatever’d made her scream.

But he had nightmares, too. And those couldn’t be stopped with bullets or flames.

So he stayed where he was and tried not to hear the muffled sobs coming from the other side of the wall. It was only a matter of time. He filled a second glass almost to the brim, took a slow sip of his own, and waited. Sure enough, there was a gentle tapping on his door before ten minutes had passed.

“Can’t sleep, Second Lieutenant?” he said casually as he opened the door.

Hawkeye looked terrible. Her eyes were too wide and too vulnerable, and the dark circles beneath them stood out all the more against the deathly pallor of her skin. Her normally tidy hair was tousled and still damp at the temples, and her lips trembled slightly as she opened her mouth to speak.

“No, sir.”

“Come in, then. Have a drink with me,” Mustang invited, stepping aside.  

She hadn’t even stopped to change out of her nightclothes, he noticed. She’d simply pulled a cardigan over the thin camisole and loose cotton pants, and Mustang wondered whether she even realized what a tempting picture she made:  half-clothed, rumpled from sleep, self-control dangling by a thread.

Normally he’d have cursed himself for allowing such a thought to even cross his mind, but tonight? Nope. Tonight he didn’t give a fuck. Hawkeye needed him, needed comfort and reassurance from a friend, and he wasn’t going to deny her for the sake of propriety or professionalism. Not when she turned those haunted eyes on him with a silent plea.

How could he refuse her anything?

* * *

The vodka had been a very bad idea – but then, she’d known that the moment she accepted the tumbler from her superior officer’s hand. The warm haze of alcohol always tended to blur boundaries that ought to remain clear and firm. It made it easy to forget duty and responsibility, and to remember instead the warmth and comfort of an old and cherished friendship. To reveal the darkness in her heart, to expose the scar tissue she normally fought so hard to conceal.

Dancing had been another awful idea. Nostalgia had taken her back to their first dance, to the exhilaration of being pulled close by the boy she’d had a desperate crush on. It had reminded her of the sorrowful longing she’d felt each time she’d danced with strangers who were but the pale imitation of this man. Who, beyond all hope and expectation, had found his way back to her. Who was once again pulling her close as they swayed together to the strains of a melancholy waltz.

Kissing him had been the worst idea of them all. Even as he’d returned the kiss, his warm hands creeping almost immediately beneath her clothing, the practical part of her mind had been screaming ‘mistake, mistake, mistake!’ But then the backs of her thighs had bumped up against the mattress, and Roy had hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her pajama bottoms, and suddenly it had been all too easy to ignore that small anxious voice in the back of her head.  

Later, as she lay in his bed with his head heavy on her breast and her fingers tangled in his hair, she reflected on the series of very bad ideas that had led her there. And decided she didn’t give a damn.

They’d both needed this.

Oh, she’d regret it, come morning. It would be embarrassing, awkward. Mustang would likely be horrified. But…Hawkeye honestly couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when she was free to trail her fingers up and down Roy’s spine as he murmured in his sleep and nuzzled closer. Not when his warm, solid mass was pressed against her, bare skin on bare skin. Not when she could still feel the searing heat of the kisses he’d trailed down her neck. Even now, her whole body felt like it was on fire just from the memory of his touch.

Funny, she’d assumed his gloves would’ve protected his hands, kept them silky soft – boyish hands, the hands of a gentleman scholar. But no. She really might have guessed that years of snapping his fingers in those ignition-cloth gloves would leave distinctive calluses on his fingertips. And **_oh_**. Who’d have thought that those strong, callused hands slowly traveling up her ribcage could drive her half-mad with _want_?

She should leave. Get up, get dressed, go back to her room and act like nothing had happened at all. Drink about a gallon of water and pray that she could plead alcohol-induced amnesia in the morning. But…when would she have this chance again? The chance to simply hold him and stroke his hair? To pretend he was hers, and she his? To pretend that he wanted her?

God, the things he’d been whispering. Her cheeks flamed at the very thought…no one had ever said such things to her before, and she’d never _dreamed_ she’d hear them from _his_ lips. Then there were those quick, clever hands of his - she’d really been enjoying those. Right up until he’d fallen asleep on her, at least.

She should probably be pissed off. What an _ass_ , getting her all worked up like that, only to pass out before finishing the job. But…maybe it was better this way. Maybe if she didn’t have the memory of his body moving in hers, it would be easier to rebuild the walls they’d torn apart so easily.

Because they _had_ to rebuild them. There was no question. If they ever wanted Roy’s dreams to become reality, then they had to work together to climb to the top. They couldn’t afford to be distracted by this…this…well, whatever this was. They _had_ to act like professionals, regardless of whatever feelings they may or may not harbor for each other.

And speaking of which…that is, Riza knew exactly how she felt about _him_ – but she was far less certain of Roy’s feelings for her. Was it just standard, garden-variety lust? Fueled perhaps by stress and copious amounts of cheap vodka? Or a twisted kind of pity, born from half-forgotten feelings of friendship and whatever mild attraction he’d once had for her? Had he _meant_ all those sweet nothings he’d been whispering, or were those just the sorts of things other women liked to hear?

She was slightly ashamed to realize that she didn’t care. Even if he hadn’t meant it, even if he was going to regret this come morning (and sobriety)…she didn’t _care_. For a few brief, shining moments, she’d been the center of his universe. The focus of the smoldering passion she so admired in him. And no one could take that away from her.

Was that as pathetic as it sounded?

Maybe.

But nevertheless, Riza slowly ran her fingers through Roy’s thick dark hair again. In his sleep, he made a soft, approving sound and pushed his head against her hand - like a great cat, encouraging the caress. And she was nearly overwhelmed by the tenderness and love that welled up within her.

In the morning, they’d both have to deal with the consequences. Mustang, conscience-stricken, would have a mild panic attack while Hawkeye calmly locked herself in the bathroom to hyperventilate (and comb her disheveled hair) until she felt able to face him. But after that awkward conversation…well, they’d just have to go on, wouldn’t they?

They’d return to being superior and subordinate, ambitious Lieutenant Colonel and faithful Second Lieutenant. They’d both stubbornly ignore their mutual attraction, and agree not to let the night’s events change their working relationship. And Riza would bury the memory of this night down as deep as she could: the desires of her woman’s heart ever secondary to the duty and honor and loyalty of the soldier.

But for now? For now she would stay. She would succumb to the lull of the alcohol in her blood and the solid warmth of her beloved draped across her body. She’d let herself have these few moments: this one night, this secret, stolen intimacy, these conflicting feelings of love and despair.

And it would be enough.


End file.
